The Chelsea Murders (17 page)

A
RTIE
was up early in the morning. He briskly made breakfast, picked up the newspaper, and glanced at it while eating.
Unemployment
figures terrible, inflation rate terrible; everything fugging terrible. But he suddenly saw something worse, and stopped eating.

He read the story several times. They had the
numbers
?

His first thought was to call Liverpool right away.

There was no phone at home, but he knew how he could get his father at the docks. Then he knew he couldn’t. Every time he picked up the phone lately there was a click.

For the same reason, he couldn’t send a telegram. Or an express letter.

He read the thing a couple of times more.

It was a put-on, he knew. But they wouldn’t know at home that it was a put-on. He wondered if he should ring from a box.
It would take time to get the old man; and maybe they tapped boxes, too … Perhaps he should get Steve to ring. But he hadn’t figured yet how much to tell Steve.

Hot shit!

He couldn’t eat any more breakfast. He couldn’t even drink coffee. He lit a cigarette and blinked the smoke out of his eyes and cleared and washed the breakfast things.

He had a lot of calculating to do, and he sat and did it for an hour until he could call Isaacs, the new guy putting money into the film. Isaacs was a small-time distributor, and on the basis of the rough-cut, Artie had wrung
£
500 out of him.

He heard the phone click as he picked it up, and mouthed a silent obscenity into it. But he got Isaacs and told him the problem that had arisen at Shaft.

‘So what do you want, Artie? I’m not a caterer.’

‘Just another hundred quid,’ Artie said.

He managed to screw Isaacs up to fifty, and called Steve.

‘Did you fix Shaft?’ Steve said.

‘No problem. When can I see you?’

‘I’ve got therapy at twelve. Say – two o’clock?’

‘Okay.’

‘Listen, what the hell is this in the paper about –’

‘At two, then,’ Artie said. ‘I’m pushed, Steve.’

He hung up, sweating.

He knew he ought to call Frank on the problem at Shaft, but he didn’t call him. There were one or two ideas he wanted to feed Steve, and he didn’t want Frank there.

He made some other calls, and also some black coffee, and carried on with the paper work, and by two was at Steve’s.

Steve’s arm was in a sling. There was a double layer of sutures in the wrist, and he was moodily nursing it as he opened the door.

‘Is it hurting?’ Artie said.

‘It’s okay. Just this Bitch of Buchenwald who does the therapy … What’s this with the money?’

Artie made silent inquiries as to bugging.

‘No, that’s over,’ Steve said.

Artie put the record-player on, all the same. ‘I already told you,’ he said, when he’d done so, and at high volume. ‘It’s a fugging put-on.’

‘But – twenty-five hundred dollars, and they know the numbers?’

‘They know nothing,’ Artie said.

‘But
what
twenty-five hundred dollars? It’s that sum again.’

‘Yeah.’ Artie paused. Time to go to work now. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said. ‘You know you said someone must have been there before us – well, I mean, shit, someone obviously was. But maybe there was another two thousand there.’

‘Well, that’s what –’

‘Forget the Press. That’s bananas. If they knew the numbers would they keep them secret? They don’t know them – point one. Point two, if the police information is correct, where would they have got it from?’

Steve thought.

‘Stanley?’ he said.

‘How, Stanley? If Stanley knew so well, they’d have nabbed him. Who else
must
have known, for certain?’

‘Chen?’

‘Chen … And with him, it’s got to be right. I mean, if he took the money himself, he wouldn’t have told them, would he? So if he Knew Denny had twenty-five hundred dollars when he left, and we found only five hundred, then someone definitely took two thousand. Right?’

‘Right,’ Steve said.

‘Yeah. Whose idea was it to ask Denny for money in the first place?’

Steve looked at him.

‘Have you flipped again?’ he said quietly.

‘No. I’ve just been thinking about it.’

‘Well, skip it.’

‘Okay. Another point,’ Artie said. ‘Who turned up first after, you know, that poor Dutch chick?’

‘We’ll drop it now,’ Steve said.

‘No, we won’t. We’ll get it out of the way,’ ‘I mean,
Christ, I don’t even know what you’re thinking. You couldn’t think it was me, could you?’

‘Oh, well, Jesus Christ, Artie –’

Artie saw Steve was embarrassed and not looking at him.

He threw in his final effort.

He said, ‘Steve, do you honestly think – I mean, could you imagine me attacking
you
, in any circumstances?’

‘Artie, I’m not listening any more. It’s finished. Over,’ Steve said.

‘Well I said it now,’ Artie said. ‘But just before we finish with it, I want you to do something for me.’ He threw just about everything into this. ‘You’re sure you’re not being followed any more?’

‘Certain.’

‘Then call this number.’ He had written it on a cigarette. ‘Ask for Horace Johnston – it’s my old man. Do it before five. You might have to hang on some time. When you get him, say you’re speaking for Artie. Don’t say who you are – just you’re speaking for Artie. Tell him not to believe what he reads, but that Knocker better hang on to what he’s got.’

‘Knocker?’

‘Just that. And don’t phone from here. Do it from a box. Have you got enough coins? Here’s some coins. Have you got the message?’

‘He shouldn’t believe what he reads, and Knocker better hang on to it.’

‘Right. And when you’re through, smoke that cigarette. Don’t forget. I don’t want you involved, Steve.’

‘Okay,’ Steve said. ‘Now – Shaft.’

‘Shaft,’ Artie said with relief, and went into the couple of snags they’d got there.

He explained the chief poof’s reluctance to have higher
wattage
in his reflectors, and the difficulty that had arisen with the food. They apparently put out a hundred quid’s worth of food on the big buffet table, and the old man didn’t want to lay it out early in the day, when they would be shooting with their own extras, because it would stale by evening. He had no objection to dressing the table for them, et cetera …

‘I half fixed that,’ Artie said, and told of the extra fifty quid he’d wrung out of Isaacs. ‘It’s really up to you what you want there. I thought we could finalize it, with the camera angles, on Sunday.’

‘With Frank,’ Steve said.

‘Okay.’

They went through ideas for the new lighting plan that would be needed and the relevant script pages, while Artie pondered how to settle the next outstanding matter. He said, ‘See, we been pretty tied up the last few weeks. I had some other ideas how the end should go. I jotted them down on paper, actually.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Steve said.

‘I thought once we’d got Shaft and the Lucan pub and the other interiors out of the way we could have a full discussion. It doesn’t affect what we shot. It’s just – a different conception.’

‘Well, let’s do it,’ Steve said.

‘Sure.’

‘All of us. Including Frank.’

‘Sure,’ Artie said again.

He wasn’t so tense when he left.

He thought it had gone not too badly.

He still had a lot to do when he got back. He talked the
wardrobe
people into accepting a hundred on account, ironed out the wrinkles with the leading actors they’d be needing, and at five blinked his way out of the role of producer back to that of
part-time
waiter.

He bussed his way down the King’s Road to
Chez Georges
to walk right into a new problem.

Serge had the ’flu, and Georges had a special gourmet lunch booked for the following day.

‘Oh, Christ, Georges, I’ve got a lot on tomorrow,’ Artie said.

There was equipment-hire as well as wardrobes, both needing deposits, and both to be talked into a couple of things they didn’t yet know about; and gourmet lunches went on till four. That left barely a couple of hours before the evening session.

‘Artie, I’m relying on you. I’m not well myself,’ Georges
pleaded with him in French. ‘And Albert is in a terrible mood. Do me this favour.’

It was true Georges wasn’t looking well himself; and Albert lately always in a terrible mood; so Artie saw he’d have to do it, and worked tensely through the evening, all the strain suddenly returning.

He wondered if Steve had got through to the old man, or if there’d been some mess-up; if perhaps Steve was still being
followed
without knowing it. He knew he was being followed himself; two of the pigs out there, at back and front.

At midnight he had a stand-up row with Albert, after doing the Ansafone orders; the chef, hopping imperiously on his short leg, abruptly ordering him to be there at nine sharp in the morning to help prepare the gourmet special. Georges had to come down to the bar and make peace with a cognac all round; but Artie was still smouldering when he left.

Thursday was not a late night at the restaurant. It was before one when he left; the two pigs still in attendance, of course.

On Friday morning, Artie thought Albert could screw himself, and he didn’t turn up till ten. He found the chef in the
downstairs
store-room, fairly dancing with rage. However, his late arrival seemed to be no part of it. Albert was waving a letter. He had managed to pick his way through a portion of it, but could scarcely believe what he read.

Artie read it for him. The letter was from the Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court, and addressed to Mr Albert A. Marigny. It said Albert, being a driver of a vehicle, had
unlawfully
caused such vehicle to be parked contrary to Regulation 6 of Section 46 of the Road Traffic Act, and in addition he hadn’t produced his driving licence.

Albert nearly blew his mind. He said of course he hadn’t produced the licence. It had been in his wallet which had been stolen, together with his jacket, from this same car. Were they all mad in this arse-hole of a country?

Artie told him there must have been a mix-up with the licence, but they’d get him for the parking offence.

‘What offence? I showed the imbecile where the car was parked!’ Albert screamed. ‘He didn’t
know
it was parked there.’

‘You shouldn’t have done,’ Artie said. ‘You should have moved it first.’

Albert very nearly had a seizure. He said it was a country full of madmen. He was the victim of a robbery! They wanted to prosecute him for not having what had been stolen from him. It wasn’t the only thing that had been stolen. His second-best cleaver was nowhere to be found, the past few days. It was a nation of thieves and imbeciles. And by God, he’d make a stink. Oh, what a stink he’d make! They thought it normal to go about stealing people’s wallets and cleavers?

‘Okay, pipe down for Christ’s sake!’ Artie said anxiously. Georges had arrived, and Marc. He could hear them, above. ‘We’ll fix this, Albert, don’t worry.’

He promised to go with Albert to the police station on
Sunday
morning, the first free time they had, and calmed him down. But it was a morning of disasters, the next one rendering Albert practically paralytic.

The under-chef was having trouble with the electric beater, which Albert looked at for him – to receive a shock that bounced him nearly in the sink.

It took a stiff treble cognac to restore him to speech, and when he got it back he threatened to leave the benighted country within the week. In the end Artie fixing the beater. His varied experience included a smattering of electrics, and he quickly saw that the insulation had broken down, the earth faulty.

The gourmet lunch ended well enough, with handshakes and congratulations all round; but not till four, as Artie had
foreseen
. He took off like a whirlwind via taxi, bus and tube (pigs sticking close) and managed equipment-hire, film stock and costumiers.

He was back by six. He could scarcely bother to eat, but he sat with the rest and made the motions. He knew he was showing strain, and tried not to. He had a lot on his mind.

All evening he remained like a piano wire, taking the orders and serving the orders; as far as possible staying out of Albert’s way.

Friday night
was
late. It was almost two before he was driven home; pigs still there and sticking tight.

Well, tough titty, Artie thought.

But for them, not him. He actually managed a weary smile.

Things were okay with him.

‘B
IFFY
,’ Mooney said.

‘
Biffy
? Biffy what?’

‘I know it sounds silly, but I can’t remember his other name. He just told me this address, and I didn’t know if he’d taken it.’

‘Well, I don’t
think
he’s called Biffy,’ the old lady said, in some perplexity. She was standing on the doorstep in her carpet slippers. ‘His name’s Mr Walker. A retired bus inspector, very nice man. He was the one who got the room from the advert.’

‘Oh, no, that wouldn’t be Biffy. Never mind,’ Mooney said, ‘and sorry to have troubled you. I’ll just try elsewhere.’

She returned to her bike, and crossed that one off the list. She wasn’t doing so marvellously. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday had chewed off nineteen calls (some of them to be revisited: landladies out); and Saturday morning so far had eliminated only another four. It took far longer than expected, and there were still over twenty to go. She saw she wouldn’t be doing many today. Still, it could be any one of them.

Next on the list was Mulhouse Street, so she pedalled off to it. It was a nasty morning, damp and raw.

Mulhouse Street, when found, was such a clapped-out disaster area, she almost gave it away. But then she had another think. Disaster areas might be exactly what this customer wanted. All the right qualities on offer: anonymity, incuriosity, tolerance of all peccadilloes short of downright lunacy. She tooled slowly along it, looking for number 56.

Number 56 was almost falling down.

Four barely decipherable names adjoined bell-pushes on the rotting door frame. From her list she saw that the landlady’s
was Cummings, and after much peering pressed the one most nearly approximating to it.

A few minutes, and another ring, later, the door opened, and a most terrible slut, dead drunk, hung on to it, in her
dressing-gown
.

‘What you want?’ she said.

‘You were advertising a room,’ Mooney said, reeling back at the smell, ‘in the
Gazette
, a couple of weeks ago. I wondered if it was still available.’

‘No. Went,’ the slut said, closing the door.

‘Hang on. A friend of mine didn’t take it, did he?’

‘What name?’

‘Biffy.’

‘Eh?’

Same routine. Same result. The one who’d taken this one was an elderly widower from Lots Road power station; and God help him, Mooney thought.

The day hadn’t begun well. And she had an idea it wasn’t the kind that just naturally got better as it went on.

It had started raining again, into the bargain.

At Lucan Place the day had started very well.

‘Many thanks, Inspector. Much obliged to you,’ Warton said, and hung up, face wreathed in smiles, one finger tapping his huge snout. ‘Amsterdam. It’s sit-downs as does it, Summers. Proved it time and again. Third sit-down, and they got it out of her.’

The police at Leyden (Sonje Groot’s home town) had got it out of her mother. After two unsuccessful sessions, she had finally dredged up a recollection of a girl her daughter had sometimes spoken of; she thought she had been at art school with her in Amsterdam. The Amsterdam police had promptly interviewed everyone they could find from Grooters’s old class, and they now thought they had identified the girl.

‘Introverted young woman. Apparently left the school same time as this poor girl. Went to Munich. Name, Heemskerk –
Nellie. They’re in touch with the German police. We’d better do the same.’

‘Okay, sir.’ Summers took the slip of paper.

‘How are the landladies?’

‘Coming on.’ All of them who had given telephone numbers in their ads had been contacted and called on. The story in the local papers had pulled in three; checked out and all okay. ‘Nothing in yet from the box numbers, sir. Still, hardly time yet. I’m sure something will come up there. Good letter.’

‘Ng.’ Warton was sure of it, too. It was a careful letter, sent from various names and addresses, stamped addressed envelope enclosed for landladies’ kind attention in informing the
undersigned
if room still available; together with cheque for
£
5 deposit. Most would reply, drawing the addresses, which could then be visited. Those who didn’t would either bank or swap the cheque (easily traceable) or tear it up. Few would tear it up. And these, give it a week, could be got at officially through the newspaper advertisement departments.

Warton didn’t think it would go a week. He thought he would have his man within the week. In that week he wanted no calls on newspaper advertisement departments; did not want their news departments alerted; did not want this cunning and dangerous young bastard tipped off in any way what they were up to.

They were up to many things, on a broad front, and he looked with satisfaction at the detailed reports of Artie’s movements of yesterday. He’d moved around a lot, but not a single moment had gone unreported. Even the time he’d spent in a public lavatory was detailed: four and a half minutes exactly.

‘Let him try and send his granny a birthday card, even, and we’ll know where he posted it. Last of these messages, anyway, Summers. I’m very satisfied with this.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Summers said, gratified. ‘I’ll pass it on.’

‘Okay. Get that telexed off to Munich, then.’

Summers was turning to do this when there was a tap on the door, and one of the Incident Room clerks looked in.

‘L.E.B. on the phone, sir,’ he said a bit puzzled. ‘They want –’

‘Who?’ Warton said.

‘London Electricity Board – Sloane Street branch. They’ve got an envelope for us. They want to know whether to post it or –’

‘What do you mean, an envelope?’

‘Addressed to us. Inside one addressed to them. They want –’

‘Get it. Right away,’ Warton said. ‘Both envelopes. Immediately.’

Twenty minutes later he had both.

The outer one, marked
Urgent
was addressed to L.E.B.,147 Sloane Street, S.W.3. It was addressed with one of the L.E.B.’s own printed tabs. The inner one, unopened, was addressed to Murder HQ, Chelsea Police Station.

He and Summers looked silently at them.

‘That cunning young sod,’ Warton said, ‘has thought up a new wriggle. He left this somewhere. Could have been a bus, tube, anything. Someone posted it for him. Well, I’m damned.’

The contents were new, too.

The interior envelope was not the familiar kind; nor was the paper or type style.

There was no type style. It was done in ball-point, in wriggly capitals to disguise the hand, on a bit of blank space in a torn-off newspaper advertisement.

They were so stunned they just gazed at it.

‘He might even have done it,’ Summers said, ‘in that
lavatory
.’

Warton blankly reached for the
Oxford. Hoppity
.

‘A.A.M.,’ Warton said at last. ‘Well, get the cards.’

In many planning sessions already, they had established that all messages received so far related to people known to Artie – or at least to some mutual connection: Germaine Roberts, Mrs Honey,. Ogden Wu, Sonje Groot. There were cards on all these now.

There were no cards initialled A.A.M. The nearest was Mooney, whose forenames were Mary Angelica.

‘Couldn’t have made a mistake, could he?’ Summers said.

‘First, if so.’

They tackled it from another angle.

The previous messages had incorporated, however deviously, the mode of attack, or its intention. Germaine had been found in a river ‘at even’; Honey had received a ‘stolen kiss’; Wu had been positioned to ‘dance upon air’; and the planned confusion over W. S. Groot constituted a ‘bah! to you’.

They considered what they had got here.

Hoppity-hop.

‘Someone with a limp?’ Summers suggested.

‘Possible … Why can’t he possibly stop?’

‘Shoved under a bus, train?’

‘No. Dealing here with something to be done at a distance. Won’t do it personally – he can’t. Got him covered every inch of the way. Needs someone or something to do it for him.
Remote
control, like the bloody letter. Hop. Hopping. Jumping. Jerking.’

‘Poisoning?’ Summers said.

‘Could be. Poison, electrocution, booby-trap, something like that. Get the covering envelope out to the Press, anyway. Might raise whoever posted it. Also get me the C.C.,’ said Warton gloomily. ‘At home. Won’t be working today.’

Others were working, however. Mr Albert A. Marigny was. He worried about Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court as he worked, and at the antiquated equipment of the restaurant, and at everything else that was wrong with the place. This
abominable
country, he thought, would be the end of him.